


Best Friends

by Writing-Classic-Rock (writingfanfic)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Gen, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 09:10:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8050540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingfanfic/pseuds/Writing-Classic-Rock
Summary: For the prompt: 'De-aging, de-aging, de-aging! De-aging fic?? I've never seen one in the fandom, and i think you could write one with this promt. :) Maybe de-aged Paul? In '65, maybe. :)' Paul is based heavily on my experience of my two brothers at 15/14, plus some typical 60s attitudes.Paul wakes up in '65 as a fifteen year old. John has to reflect on what's changed and what hasn't.





	Best Friends

“ _George_.”

George opened his eyes, and then rolled over, checking the clock. Six a.m.? Really, John? On one of their few precious days where they could lie in, he groaned to himself.

“What?” he snapped, and there was an awkward pause.

“ _Can I come in?_ ”

“…no,” George grumped, and rolled over. A few seconds later, the door opened, and he sat up. “Piss off-!” And then he stopped, staring, as John came in, and behind him…

George recognised the boy at once – of course he did. They’d grown up together, gone to the same school. It would’ve been like not recognising your own mum in an old photo. He just… it’d been a while. Of course it had.

“ _Paul?_ ”

The boy was all big ears and freckles and his teeth hadn’t been grown into yet, weren’t adorable, just awkward – George cleared his throat, and Paul stared at him from big, scared eyes.

“He just woke up like this.” John’s voice was alarmed, and Paul glanced around.

“Who are you?” he asked, voice cracked, high, frightened, and John exhaled slowly. “Where am I?” George’s jaw dropped, and John looked at him.

“He’s got no idea where he is. He knows who I am but…” he shrugged. “Well.”

“I told yer, you are _not_ John Lennon. Johnny’s sixteen, for fuck’s sake,” Paul whispered, and George could see he was trembling. “I d-don’t know where I am, like, but I wanna go home…”

“…Paulie, it’s okay,” George said gently, and Paul sniffled, looking at him. “It’s me, lad, it’s George, George Harrison…” Paul shook his head violently, and George nodded. “Christ, lad, it’s okay, it really is…”

“Who the fuck are you?! You’re not Geo, you’re not Johnny!” Paul was crying now, and John patted his shoulder awkwardly. “Get the fuck off me, yeh queer!” He spat at John and twisted away, and John looked at George helplessly.

“What do we do? I’ve not gone mental, have I?” he asked quietly, and George shook his head.

“Okay, Paul, sit down. It’s 1965, you’re actually twenty-three,” he said quietly, and Paul scoffed.

“Fuck off. Take me home or I’m callin’ the bizzies on yeh…” Paul’s resolve was frankly stoic, even as tears streamed down his freckled cheeks.

“John, lad… can you get the paper?” George asked quietly, and John stared at him. “It’s got the date on it, yeh weapon, it can prove the date to him…” John nodded rapidly.

“I’m gonna leave you with Geo. Christ, George…” He scuttled out, and George sighed.

“Listen, lad, turn away, I’m not wearing pants an’ I don’t wanna frighten yeh no more…” Paul covered his face, and then scuttled back against the wall, pulling his knees up to his face. “But I swear to yeh, I’m Geo. It’s me.”

“Yer lyin’, yeh bastard…” Paul sobbed, and George pulled clothes on as quickly as he could. It felt weird - in Hamburg, they’d have gotten changed around each other with no care, but now… this felt _creepy_.

“Yer fifteen, right?” he guessed, and Paul nodded, still staring into his hands. “Okay, so I’d be fourteen. Well, you’ve just introduced me to Johnny, haven’t yeh?” Paul lifted his head and stared at him. “We go to school together… yeh play guitar, but yer a talent on bass, right… Yeh’ve just joined the Quarrymen?”

“…how the fuck do yeh know,” Paul whispered.

“Because it’s me. George. We went… uh, go to school together.” He sighed. “Don’t yeh recognise me?”

“Geo’d never get that poof’s haircut,” Paul muttered, and George cackled, and then paused, struck by inspiration, and got down to look under the bed. “What?”

“I’ve got a poster! Lad, it’ll show yeh that we’re not lying, yeh’ve just… travelled through time… somehow…” George mumbled, and then shook his head. He was actually beginning to wake up now, and the idea was suddenly presenting itself as insane.

“Got the paper, George. Paul, check this.” John was back.

“15th… March… 1965…” Paul’s voice cracked at the end, and he threw the paper across the room. “No, no, _no!_ ”

“Look.” George pulled the poster out from under the bed, and they opened it. It had all four of their faces, and their names as well – thank fuck for whoever’d designed the thing, he thought fervently. “Look, lad, it’s us!”

“John Lennon,” Paul whispered, staring at the enormous piece of paper. “George Harrison. Paul Mc…McCartney…” He sniffled. “Ringo Starr? Who the fuck is… who the fuck is that?!”

John and George swapped glances.

“Okay. Let’s wake up Ringo and we’ll talk this one out.”

* * *

“So we made it?” Paul whispered, and John nodded. “But you don’t know Geo… I was gonna introduce yeh…”

“He’s never met Pete. He’s never met _Stu_.” John, George and Ringo swapped glances, and Paul shook his head in bewilderment. “Jesus.”

“What’re we gonna tell Brian?” Ringo asked quietly, and George groaned a little. “What’re we gonna tell _Jane_?”

“Who?” Paul asked, glancing between them.

“Well, Brian’s our manager, lad. Queer as they come but a good guy, like, wouldn’t try it on with yeh or anythin’,” John said, and Paul’s brow furrowed. “I remember you at fifteen, lad, as bad as me, but if yeh speak against Brian I’ll knock yeh out. You… well, you as you are now, like, think the world of him.”

“Yeh’ve changed,” Paul muttered.

“Yeh _flirt_ with him for yer own way, so, lad, I’d say you ‘ave too,” John said sharply, and Paul’s jaw dropped.

“Anyway,” Ringo said quickly, and Paul folded his arms, clearly sulking. “Jane’s yer girlfriend-”

“I’ve got a girlfriend?” Paul grinned. “Buzzin’! Is she fit…?”

“Paul, she’s not gonna fuck a fifteen-year-old,” George snorted, and Paul looked down at himself, before groaning. “Now, we’ve gotta keep yeh hidden…”

The door opened, and Brian marched in.

“It’s nearly eight a.m., boys, let’s…”

He paused, and John put his hand to his face.

“Oh, bollocks…”

“What’s…?” Brian asked quietly, and John put his hand up.

“Brian, yer not gonna believe this…”

“So much for keepin’ it a secret,” George said quietly.

* * *

“You have a show tomorrow!” Brian said, aghast. “What do you expect me to do? ‘Sorry, The Beatles cannot perform today, our bassist is suddenly fifteen’?” He put a hand to his face. “How… how does something like this happen?”

“I’ve no idea,” John confessed, “but… we’ve gotta keep him hidden.”

“You’re bloody right!” Brian snapped. “I want someone with him at all times, someone _responsible_ …” John grinned at him. “Oh, no, not you, Lennon, you’re a nightmare. He stays in this hotel…”

“…I’m not stayin’ here all day! I’ve got school!” Paul snapped back, and George shook his head. “…oh. Yeah.” He put his hand to his head. “I’m not stayin’ cooped up in here, okay…”

“You can’t be seen outside. You don’t understand, you’re just a child!” Brian said harshly, and Paul squared up to him. It would’ve been hilarious if it hadn’t also been so adorable.

“Yeh can’t keep me in here, yeh queer, I-”

Next second, John had hold of Paul’s collar and had jerked him back, glaring into his eyes – the ten year age-gap suddenly vanished and George, Ringo and Brian saw the McLennon that they were used to, the two best friends who could fight like demons when roused.

“Yeh’ve not earned the right yet,” John snarled. “Yeh don’t get to speak to him that way…” Paul shoved him, and Ringo and George quickly got between them.

“I wanna go home!” Paul shouted, and Brian closed his eyes.

“God help me, I wish we could send you,” he muttered. “Boys, figure something out and then tell me. Adieu.” He stormed out, and George let go of Paul’s arm, Ringo releasing John from a death grip worthy of a python.

“Okay. So…” George said levelly, and Paul and John glared at one another. “How can we amuse him?” Paul cleared his throat.

“Yeh could ask,” he suggested lightly.

“Well, what do yeh want to do?” Ringo asked politely.

“Go home?”

* * *

“Okay, so I’ve told Brian that we’re gonna stay with him,” George said flatly, and Ringo nodded. “Where’ve you been?”

“John sent me to get some drumsticks. Two of ‘em are back to being best mates now. Reckons we could chill him out if we hand him a guitar and jam.” George nodded, and then froze.

“Wait, yeh left McLennon alone? One of ‘em’s a bloody child and the other’s gone back in time to fifteen!” he gasped, and opened the door. The room was empty. He was not surprised.

A quick scan of the room proved that no, the boys weren’t hiding – they’d gone, and a note was left stating that John wanted to ‘show Paul some cool stuff’. George groaned dramatically, and Ringo bit his lip.

“We’ve gotta find ‘em,” he said quietly, and George nodded, grabbing his coat.

“You are stayin’ here in case they come back. Do _not_ tell Brian,” he said sharply, and marched out.

* * *

“So… this is 1965?”

Paul looked around in amusement, and John nodded.

“Yer fake moustache is comin’ off, mate.” John grinned.

“Yeh, well, you can’t grow one yet,” he bantered back, and Paul kicked him. “Ah, sod off, lad.” Paul glanced around again. “We all live in London now, like. Easier to record.”

“But it’s full of Southern poofs, like,” Paul said in confusion. John snorted.

“Yeh, but they’re givin’ us two money, like, so yeh’ve gotta make sacrifices, like.” They walked along the street in silence for a moment. “Yeh know they’re callin’ us the greatest songwritin’ duo? Like, ever?”

“Fuck off, lad, bet I’m carryin’ yeh,” Paul bantered, and his youthful face grew solemn for a moment. “So… we’re still best mates, yeh?” John paused for a moment. “Not gettin’ all queer on yeh.”

“…course we are, mate,” John said finally, and shook his head. “C’mon, lad. Let’s go do summat fun.”

* * *

“Where are you going?”

George turned on his heel and smiled a little too widely at Brian.

“Ah, lad, I was just, uh… smoke?” he tried, and Brian sighed.

“Who’s upstairs with Paul?” he asked quietly, and George felt his face flush. He _felt_ it. He hated being a fundamentally honest person. John could’ve bullshitted Brian to the moon and back.

“Ringo, and John,” he said. “Didn’t… uh… wanna smoke in front of Paul, like. Bad habit.” Brian’s eyes narrowed. “He’s fifteen, Eppy.”

“If you’re getting stoned outside I honestly will let the police take you in,” Brian sighed after a moment, and George relaxed. “I bet he’s been bloody smoking since fifteen…” George opened his mouth to refute Brian, but with every single second, he realised that McLennon were getting closer to causing some kind of disaster, so he just nodded emphatically and bolted for the door, leaving Brian standing in the middle of the lobby looking bewildered.

* * *

“So what’s changed?”

“Telly’s gettin’ a bit exciting. Lots of it’s in colour now, lad,” John said as they walked down the street. Paul had insisted they stop for ice-cream, and John would never have stopped him, not for the world. “We’re shootin’ a film right now in colour.”

“That’s mental. A film?” Paul asked excitedly. “We’re film stars, Johnny?”

“Yeah! We’ve had one out. It was alright, like,” John deferred. “ _A Hard Day’s Night._ ” He shrugged. “Y’know.” Paul licked his ice-cream, and John realised they were not walking anywhere in particular.

“So if I’ve got a bird, what about you?” he asked, and John grinned.

“I’m married, lad.” That stopped Paul. “Lad, I’ve got a kid.” Paul looked a little wounded, and John realised that to fifteen year old Paul, that was an almost alien concept. Then again, Paul always had been a bit of a kid. “His name’s Julian. He’s lovely.”

“You’ve got a kid?” Paul said, and John heard… it was almost an edge of betrayal in his voice. “…so how d’yeh… the band… like?” John shrugged.

“Well, Cyn stays at home and gets on with it,” he said flatly, and Paul noticed that for the first time the older man was avoiding his gaze. “I… yeah. Yeh’d love Julian. Yeh do love Julian, I mean. Like… yer really good with him. But yeh, you’re not…” He stopped. “Does this really matter?”

“No,” Paul declared after a moment. “Like… we’re still best mates, an’ all.” John felt a smile spread across his face.

“Yeh, lad. We are an’ all.”

* * *

George was not happy.

He had realised about five minutes into his search that London was an awfully large place to find a man and a teenage lad, and after ten minutes of fruitlessly wandering around, he realised that he had no idea where to go. So now he was sitting on a park bench having a smoke and wondering just how much of his shit Brian was going to lose upon his return.

“Oh my god.”

He turned, and two girls were staring at him. His brain put its metaphorical hand over its metaphorical eyes and tried to relocate to somewhere it could watch this drama unfold from a distance.

“It’s him!”

“Nope,” George said, smiling tightly, and stood up, walking away. He heard them follow him, and privately decided that Paul would not live to see another dawn. John neither.

* * *

“Hello?”

Ringo stared at the door, and his eyes flickered to the lock. Locked. Thank god.

“Brian?” he replied.

“Sorry to intrude, everyone…” The door-handle rattled, and there was a pause. “Uh, please could you open the door?”

“Uh… Paul’s… asleep.” Ringo cursed himself for a moment. “He’s knackered, had a bit of a scrap with John.” There was silence. “Who’s… also… asleep. Like.” There was some more silence. “So I’d speak quieter.”

“…Richard, are you aware that you are a _fucking_ awful liar?” came Brian’s very terse voice. “And that George has been out for an hour ‘having a smoke’? Now, I’m going to pretend we’ve not had this conversation, and I’m going to start again. Hello.”

“Hello, Brian,” Ringo said quietly.

“Where’s Paul? Try not to lie,” Brian said, very sharply, and Ringo swallowed.

“Well, our Paul as we know him, like, is very definitely not here. As for fifteen-year-old Paul, like, that really depends on semantics…” he began, and there was a mutter before the door opened. Brian, of course, had sent for a key.

“Where are they, Ringo?” Brian asked, and Ringo cleared his throat.

“Next room?” he tried.

* * *

“So…”

John and Paul lay on the grass, ice-creams long finished.

“Do you reckon I’ll remember this, like?” Paul asked, and John shrugged. “Like… will I wake up tomorrow back in ’57 and… I don’t know, lad.” John shrugged again, and stared up at the sky.

“If yeh do, do me a favour and make me wear a johnny when I shag Cynthia. Sometime in August 1962. _Don’t forget_.” Paul looked horrified. “Nah, I’m jokin’. I love Jules. It’s just…”

“Bein’ tied down?” Paul asked quietly, and John nodded. He didn’t even have to say anything. He would probably feel different tomorrow, but speaking to Paul… seeing himself reflected in those eyes… it made him feel regrets. He bit his lip. He supposed anybody would want to go back, if they could.  “…how’s my bird?”

“Jane? She’s alright. Good legs. Yeh’ll be great together if yeh do get married.” He sighed. “Did I tell yeh Mam died?”

“Julia?” Paul gasped, and John nodded. He saw Paul’s eyes fill with tears. “Fuck’s sake, lad…” The younger guy put his arm around him without even thinking, and John nodded. “How did yeh deal?”

“Drink. Fightin’. Mostly. But… yeh helped. Yeh really did.” Paul nodded, and they shared a moment. “We’re best friends, right?” He couldn’t believe it was him, asking this lad that.

“Yeh, mate. Always will be.” John smiled, a watery little smile, and then ruffled Paul’s hair. “Ah, gerroff, ya queer…”

George sprinted past, and John’s brow furrowed.

“Harrison?!”

George skidded to a halt, and then pointed.

“You utter cunts!” he snapped, and John grinned. “Get here now, there’s about twenty teenage birds headed our way-” He pointed at Paul, whose eyes had lit up. “Fuck off. Yeh utter bastards. Get here, now, we’ve gotta get back to the hotel…”

* * *

“You irresponsible,” Brian ranted, as he marched Ringo towards the door, “absolute…”

“Bri, hey, look what I found!” George announced as he propelled Paul and John through the door, and Brian stopped dead. “Great job, Ringo, lad, he’ll never know we were gone.” Ringo flushed a little, and Brian snapped even as John and Paul looked at each other and grinned.

“ _Back upstairs! Now!_ ”

* * *

John opened his eyes, and looked across at the bed. He knew – from the height, the hair, everything, that Paul was back. His Paul – although he supposed the one from yesterday was his Paul too.

“Paulie,” he hissed, and Paul rolled over, sleepy-eyed.

“Lad? What time is it, I’m gonna knock yeh out if it’s before seven,” he grumbled. “I feel like I got not bloody sleep…” Had John been another person, he would’ve scrambled across and hugged him, but that was bloody queer. Instead, he just smiled.

“Fuck off back to sleep,” he said quietly. Best friends, he though as Paul swore at him and rolled back. Always.

 


End file.
